A Poetry Showcase for Claire Hughes

orange and yellow fire illustration

photo by Marek Piwnicki (unsplash)

my first kiss was

a train hopped trip down a graffitti track towards the silver moon discs of Selfridges; into the dusty darkness of New Street station; up the escalators to the Pallasades, down the Maccy’s Ramp, passed the Odeon, passed Bully’s Backside, into the glass house of the Bullring and down the lift to Clinton’s Cards on the ground floor; 
	my aunty saw me
back against the glass, knocking teeth with a pale face, thick lipped lad from Tipton who I’d never met before;
	my aunty saw me
but she didn’t wave, didn’t call my name, didn’t make me twist and turn out of a monumental moment; she walked on, joined the queue for Nandos 
and called my mom. 

The Turn of Day

I stand at the bedroom window,
watch the clouds
darken, as if they are soaking
up an ink spill;

	watch the sun 
retreat		 fear sodden;

	watch the rain
fall and scatter		slow at first
then the sky splits and spits water
out like bullets.

	My land	the Earth
buckles under the strain,
bleeds brown mulch,
the flood	an open wound.

	I watch
as my flock are carried off,
one by one,
to a distant dream.

	I watch 
the harvest fall
into the mouth of the gods

	And I watch
the tyrannical hand of nature
reclaim what is hers.

	I watch 
my life melt into the overgrown river
and wonder how to swim.


I hear the sing song tale
of the blackbird and I heed
it’s warning

she approaches

small, hooded woman
shrouded in black,
marches her skeletal
frame through wild
free meadows

searches for a bloom

I stand
stock still, hoping
her white bone touch
will only graze
but it doesn’t

her grip tightens

around my spine and I am plucked
from happiness

my breath is forced
from its cage, dew
drop tears forced
from my eyes
	open palms can’t catch	
			a flood

she devours each petal

lets them curdle 
in the pit of her stomach

bare and broken
she carries me to her lair where 
I am tossed with the black feathered birds
and ash

her rasping breath blows

a tornado, twisting me into
a smog that will settle
in my mind for however long

she sees fit

A Thief in the Night

Rain sweeps in,
blows out the lamplight - 

a thief in the night takes a chance
runs free
           black bellied and cold
it runs through the streets
swells and spews
through doors 
eats its fill of concrete and cobbles

and life
falls into the pits
of its belly

it sits
a swamp at the ankles
of houses.

Bio: Claire Hughes is a Birmingham born writer now living in Staffordshire. She achieved her MA in Creative Writing from Lancaster University and has had her poetry featured in online magazines such as; One Hand Clapping, 192 and The Babel Tower Notice Board. She has also been featured in anthologies by Dream Well Publishing and The Mum Poem Press and her debut pamphlet, Oblivion, will be published by Clayhanger press in the coming weeks. As well as writing poetry, Claire works in prose and has been longlisted for the Primadonna Prize.

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

1 comment

Leave a comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: